All these stupid feelings with their stupid little words. I miss you is so boring. So lame.
So insipid and tame.
Equivalent to the repetition of moth to flame.
I need a diction to match the conviction of your treasonous affliction.
Your conditions are my crusifiction.
The friction restriction— the newest addition to your jurisdictions—
implode my self-infliction
I choke down these prescriptions.
A catatonic emission of probable remission
My ambition locked under submission, this
deposition an exhibition suspicion That our trebulation is beyond non-fiction. I need a physicain for Hell’s finest edition
Of my unrequited love addiction.